


My Mirror, The First

by wanderlustlover



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Milliways, Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/pseuds/wanderlustlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s how it is with this, too. It always was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Mirror, The First

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** [](http://milliways-bar.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**milliways_bar**](http://milliways-bar.dreamwidth.org//) DE Challenge  
>  **Recipient:** [](http://alemara.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**Alemara**](http://alemara.dreamwidth.org/)  
>  **Summary:** Marian  & Caspian; My Mirror  
>  **Disclaimer:** Marian belongs to mythos and BBC, while Caspian belongs to C.S. Lewis, and these beautiful two belong to both Laura and I. This takes place in the wonderful, beautiful   
> [](http://milliways-bar.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**milliways_bar**](http://milliways-bar.dreamwidth.org).

They said it once, not quite like a joke. No, never quite like a joke. And, never quite to often or to out loud even. She can’t remember who said it first, or who agreed. Whether there was ever a start, or an agreement to be had. Or whether anyone ever said it at all. It’s like the stars. You never really remember who told you they were there the first time. It’s more that they always were. 

That’s how it is with this, too. It always was. 

The way how even if they are as different to the eye as Lady Night and Lord Day, his past and her present always seemed to dove tail perfectly like joints, like fingers in to hands clasp together. Rebellions. Loyalty. Love. Politics. Sacrifice. Understanding. Wanting. Dreams. Riding. Running. Standing tall. Two reflections of one truth. One in the middle of starting out, and the other in the second gifted life beyond its first pale. 

Like the Stars, and the Air, and the endless, emerald expanse Sherwood. 

 

That didn’t turn out to be so endless, when there’s a soot silhouetted door proving it wrong.

 

That un-truth is one of several massive cracks that run, jagged and bitter-sharp as hardest steel, through her every breath, every thought, every foundation. So that when she stares at him, when he holds out his hand, when he asks her to follow, this is what she whispers when she comes. 

He is her mirror. He always was. He always has been. 

_(He once was gone for good. He might one day go again.)_

But he stands there still every morning and every night, prizing smiles and words as though they are more precious than pearls. Never less than that. Never less than what he is. What he was. And she whisper is to herself, taking each new hand, and each new step, and trying to build each smallest new breath of faith in this bran new world. 

For him – because he is her mirror, because she can’t not be his even here, even now, she knows the depth of the loyalty that sent him to a sand caked desert as if it were her own, knows the pain in those sea tossed eyes no matter how he smiles as if it were her own – she keeps taking each hand, each step, each breath. Because he is her mirror, because she is his. Until she can find any truths, beyond the few foundations that haven’t fallen apart entirely.


End file.
